


Burning in Ithilien

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo takes ill just before capture by Faramir's men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning in Ithilien

"Why don't you lie down and get some rest, Mr. Frodo? You look right weary." Sam stamped out the fire he had used to cook the delicious rabbit stew - the best that had passed Frodo's lips since Lorien. Alas, he had only the appetite for a few bites of it. He had dumped some of it into the brush behind him so that Sam would not notice how little he ate.

Frodo sat on the rock, slumped forward, his arms resting on his torn breeches. His eyes throbbed, and the sunlight only made it worse. After the grim nights through the Dead Marshes, he should have been grateful for the sun on his face. Now it only hurt his eyes, and he closed his eyes, wishing for clouds.

Just the day before, he and Sam had bitterly argued, and as Frodo had stalked away without watching his feet, he had slipped on a slick stone on the side of the stream and he had fallen into the chilled water. Of course, Sam had run to him at once, argument forgotten, helping him up and covering his wet clothes with his own cloak.

Frodo had not changed clothes, since his other clothes were also damp and they carried a strong stench from the marshes. He had depended on the sun to warm him.

"Yes, Sam," he said quietly. "Perhaps I will lie down for a short nap." That which was left unsaid from their argument throbbed like a gaping cut. The way Sam treated Gollum, as if the creature repulsed and offended him by his very existence, tore him inside. Frodo could only see the future, how possible it was for him to become a creature just as wretched as Gollum. How would Sam feel toward his master if he knew that sometimes, when Frodo woke in the middle of the night, the Ring burning into his chest, the wheel of fire in front of his eyes, that Frodo's thoughts gibbered and yammered just as Gollum did when he muttered and capered about.

Frodo's muscles ached, and it took every ounce of his strength to climb to his feet again. He looked wearily about for a place to lie down.

"Where's that Stinker gone to again?" Sam's brows furrowed in suspicion. "Every day is a day too long that we've put up with him."

Frodo's throat clutched. The argument had been for naught. Sam simply did not understand that every insult flung at Gollum imbedded itself deep inside Frodo, where he saw a future where Sam bent all his scorn and hatred on him.

"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" Sam moved toward him. "I don't like the way you're shivering."

"I'm all right-" Frodo froze, listening. "Sam!" He grabbed Sam's arm. "We're not alone! I hear--"

Four Men burst into their clearing, swords drawn, wearing green masks and gauntlets and leather tunics etched a white tree. Frodo and Sam clutched each other with a cry.

"What is this?" one of the Men turned dubiously to the others. "This is not the black squirrel-like creature you spoke of."

"But what are they?"

A cloaked Man with golden hair pointed his sword under Frodo's chin. "Declare yourselves and your errand."

Frodo stood on quaking legs, too afraid to breathe for fear the sword would prick his neck. One of the Men laughed. "Are they children? Or elves? See the fur on their feet! Captain, Faramir, what shall we do with them?"

"Nay, not children," another said. "But if they do not declare themselves, I fear you must carry out the law of Ithilien, Captain Faramir."

Frodo's heart clutched, and he looked around wildly for escape. There was no way he could run, not in his state. A black fuzz fell before his eyes. "We're Hobbits of the Shire," he said in a weak voice. "Halflings. And we are travelers far from home."

"What business brings you into Ithilien, so near the shadow of...yonder?" Captain Faramir's voice was soft, but low with deadly intent.

Frodo did not answer. He had often feared such an encounter, but had never practiced what he would do or say.

"Speak!"

"This is not the time or the place for it," Frodo said. "But please--" He could not stand any longer, so fierce was the ache of his back muscles and the weakness in his legs, and he began to sink to the ground. Sam held a firm arm around him, keeping him upright.

"Understand, halflings, that I am commanded to slay any I find in Ithilien not here by leave of the steward of Gondor."

"My master is sick," Sam broke in fiercely. "He needs rest, not bullying. We've something to see through, if you catch my meaning, and it won't harm you none to just let us go."

"Mablung, Damrod, bind their hands," Faramir said with a weary sigh. "Not far from here is our stronghold. There I can tend to you the best I can and find out that which you are keeping hidden."

"He cannot walk!" Sam struggled against the strong arms that pulled his hands behind him. Without Sam's support, Frodo sagged to his knees. He was quickly yanked up again by rough hands that tied his hands.

"Captain..." Frodo said weakly as a haze covered his vision. The last he remembered was the Captain's startled glance in his direction before everything went black and still.

***

Frodo woke beside a small fire. His hands were free, and he was lying on something soft. A heavy cloak or blanket, which smelled of firewood and leather, covered him, and he was tucked in like a babe. The sky was deep blue above him, and faint stars had appeared in the sky. He recognized the rock on which he had sat earlier. They must not have moved. Frodo groaned. Faramir knelt beside him.

Though he knew the answer, he asked, "Where am I?"

Faramir placed a cold, wet cloth on his burning forehead. "I did not wish to move you while you were so ill. Even had we carried you, it may have done unnecessary harm."

"What is wrong with me?" Frodo whispered. The cool water felt so good on his hot forehead, and he shivered.

"I do not know enough about your kind...and I am no healer...but your clothes are cold and damp, and you are overwhelmed by fever."

"Where is Sam?"

"My men wanted to take him ahead to our stronghold, but he grew so distressed to be separated from you that I allowed him to stay. He has fallen asleep, despite his best intentions. Tomorrow you will be well enough to travel, and we shall go together to our stronghold."

Frodo's heart filled and Faramir's words brought him surprising peace. He had been foolish to entertain the notion that Sam could ever despise him. Long ago, Merry had said that Sam would jump down a dragon's throat for him, and there was nothing to indicate that had changed.

Faramir tilted Frodo's head up just enough to put a cup of cold water to his lips. "Drink. Your lips are warm and dry."

Frodo eagerly drank, relishing the cool liquid on his parched lips.

"Rest now, Frodo."

Frodo closed his eyes, feeling more at peace than ever he had since the fellowship had broken.

END


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